


Let's Just Not Move On

by kangelique



Series: The Captain Swan Playlist [18]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Drinking to Cope, Drunk calls, F/M, Fluff but there's so much shit going on beforehand, Gen, Love Confessions, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Not Emma or Killian, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reminiscing, intense grief, this one's gonna hurt...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:00:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26229082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangelique/pseuds/kangelique
Summary: The truth is Killian Jones is no hero. He's what he's told Emma he's always been: a survivor. Surviving has led him to Dr. Hopper's office and nightmares he can't escape. And how can he be happy, how can he be anything when Liam's blood stains his hands?The truth is Killian Jones is a hero. But no matter how many times Emma tells him that, he can't forgive himself, he can't look her in the eye and pretend he wants to live.  So she leaves and it kills her. He needs space, he needs time to heal, and she needs to stop being selfish.Right?But then it's obvious: there's only one way to heal, and that's to love.If only they could stop overthinking for five seconds to realize it.Luckily their memories have other plans.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Series: The Captain Swan Playlist [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1327670
Comments: 16
Kudos: 19





	1. "I'm giving us our best chance..."

**Chapter 1: "I'm giving us our best chance..."**

Emma hesitantly pressed on the brake when she rolled to a stop behind a red Toyota. 

Her heartbeat thrummed like an accusing drum in her ears as she set the bug to parking and removed her key from the ignition. Her shoulders didn’t die down with the bug’s low hum. Instead tension formed between her shoulder blades when she glanced at the window display and it was Now or Never. 

She almost scoffed. Of course he’d come early. And she, well, maybe a few minutes of getting her shit together wouldn’t hurt. He just had to remain a gentleman after all was said and done. 

Why was she doing this again?

Oh because it’d been precisely one hundred and fifty days and his favorite tea cup was still sitting on her nightstand. Unwashed, encouraging her hands to hold it.  _ Wuthering Heights  _ was still making itself cozy between the couple mystery thrillers she actually liked, and his blue stress ball was still smushed between her throw pillows on their - _ her?-  _ bed. 

The orphan inside her whispered it was time. Time to give up and quit waiting on the two years of happiness to rush back. The problem was the orphan inside her also told her that sure, those mini reminders of him were slaps in the face, but maybe, they could be hope. 

Her phone’s beep startled her grip on the steering wheel and she pulled her gaze away from the window to read the new message. 

**Ryan Something (asshole) : Can’t wait to finally see you tonight.**

Emma rolled her eyes, scowling as she typed out a quick reply.  **Same here xxx**

Ugh. Thank god in a few hours that exhausting flirting would be over. 

Her gaze inevitably returned to the mop of dark hair sitting with his head bent forward, stray stands falling across his forehead as he nursed a black tea between his hands with hunched shoulders keeping him close to the table. 

She released a sigh. Nothing had changed, and as she grasped the handle and moved to get out, she second guessed this for the fifth time today. 

Better to get this over with, right? 

She tossed her phone on the passenger seat. Something about it being so empty, so devoid of Killian and their playful arguments over who was in charge of the radio, causing her to harshly shut the door. She tugged on the handle of yet another door to enter  _ another  _ Starbucks. 

So many doors. So many walls. 

She inhaled a deep breath and finally walked in, assaulted by the smell of brewing coffee and baked goods that used to comfort her. 

Lanterns had hung above the counter when she’d strolled up to it and slammed a ten dollar bill on the surface, sweaty and panting after catching a skip, and it was the faint burning yellow light reflecting off his oh so blue eyes that’d snatched the breath from her throat. 

This one didn’t have any lanterns, just the scattered ceiling lights offering weak light onto the sepia colored walls and floor leading the way to the multiple temptations displayed on the rack. 

The tables had been rounded the first time she’d considered staying to drink her coffee rather than running out because she didn’t mind watching the guy whose nametag informed her his name was Killian J go about preparing coffee with fluid hands.

The green grass apron -normally so unflattering because  _ seriously, green?- _ had been wrapped tightly around his waist, promoting his chest muscles, and it was how his cheeks had flushed a faint shade of pink under the Starbucks hat when his fingers accidentally brushed her knuckles that nudged her back again and again. Just so he’d hand her the cup and they could both hope each other’s day got better.

Now, Emma approached a square table and prepared herself for no touches of any kind when he snapped his head up and a wide smile conquered his face. 

Their eyes met and she freezed. Ends of her keys dug into her palm. He immediately jumped, racing forward but she pulled out her chair before he could, reminding him with a curt nod to his side it wasn’t his job anymore. To maker her life easier, to make it better. Not when they weren’t together. Not even friends. Not even square one. 

“Yes, well…” He scratched behind his ear and a sad smile thrust on his lips before he slowly backtracked and they finally sat together. The coils in her belly tightened in response to the adoring gaze he directed and she cleared her throat to free herself of  _ their fingers entwined above her head, eyes glazed over by love as his calloused palm traced her ribs and his smile captured hers sweetly - _

“You look stunning, Swan,” he shook his head slightly. 

“It’s for a work thing,” she shrugged, like his compliments didn’t reach into her soul and increased her pulse.

He grinned. “I assumed as much.”

More like he knew she hated high heels and her hair curled tight enough to bounce and wearing any hot pink suffocating dress was out of the question. He’d undressed her and melted her annoyance into the mattress and pillows before she left for her ‘date’ too many times to not see her and know her. 

Her heart thudded. Beats stubborn and wanting. 

Whoever said time healed all wounds was full of shit. 

“Did you already order -oh,” she breathed, stomach clenching at the sight of the bearclaw on the napkin and large vanilla to-go cup he gently nudged forward. 

“I figured you’d be thirsty, love,” Killian said softly. She didn’t move, didn’t say anything. She was trapped and he leaned back, clasping his hands as he thumbed the bottom of his tea. “On top of it I’ve been here quite a while.”

“I know. Sorry.” She winced and moistened suddenly dry lips, searching for the right words. Wishing she had his eloquence. He should have been a writer and she should have been stronger. “It’s just I wasn’t sure if-”

“If you wished to see me again?” Hopelessness widened her eyes and he nodded slowly. His gaze dropped to the surface of somberness that’d settled between them and scared any chance they could do this fast and without any feelings encouraging her constant shifting. “Aye, I understand,” he said and smiled sadly. “Well, I’m glad you did.”

Her thumb caressed the edge of the napkin, pulling the bearclaw closer to her with hesitant fingers. “You remembered,” Emma whispered and her lips tugged into a small smile that fell when he nodded. 

“Of course. Simply because it’s been five months, love, does not mean-”

“And you counted too.”

“I beg your pardon? Too?” Damn it. 

“I did too,” she finally said. The carelessness she aimed for escaped her voice, straining it. She almost punched his awed face. How the hell was he surprised? Every day had dragged. “Wow. Already five months.”

Nights had been the worst. Hugging her body pillow nowhere near the same as cuddling into his side, stealing his warmth, or falling asleep to the feeling of his softening inside her with his head tucked under her breasts. 

“Indeed. Care to tell me what you’ve been up to?” he asked casually and Emma was late to narrow her eyes, a single beat crossing the air before a frown settled in at the same time her resolve did. 

“Killian, you know the rules,” Emma sighed. The light snuffed out and she was responsible, always responsible. “I can’t...we can’t do that anymore.”

He leaned forward with furrowed eyebrows. His two pleading oceans concentrated on the hands unclasping and curling themselves into taut fists for a moment, and yeah she fucking hated this too. 

“Why ever not?” he said and her walls flew,  _ just flew.  _ He reached for her hand but seemed to think better of it, better to not try and get another rejection. In the end, he brought his eyes to hers, unfazed by her fire. Weak fire. “Am I not even allowed to ask how you are?”

She grit her teeth. “No because you know where that leads.”

Under long lashes, he studied her, got his answer, and hoped anyway. “To forgiveness, perhaps?”

Emma scoffed to mask that she’d studied him back, got her answer, and disappointed herself anyway. “So you’re telling me you finally believe you’re good enough?”

Killian shoulders sagged with his sigh. “Ah, It’s more complicated than that, I’m afraid,” he mumbled, blinking against dark circles that dimmed the blue in his pupils .She flashed him a scowl and stopped biting on her tongue if only to knock some sense into him. 

“Then nothing’s changed.”

The familiar scent of rum and maybe a blueberry muffin threatened to crack her decision to do this, to stay until she’d said all she’d come here to say and then walk away like it didn’t matter because it  _ shouldn’t  _ matter anymore. But the way it enveloped her nose and coerced her jiggling leg to relax, it was before. 

Five months should have helped her realize it didn’t matter, but the threads of hope she’d been clinging to faded as his eyebrows squeezed closer and he scrubbed a hand over his shadowed face and rubbed the back of his neck and  _ it mattered  _ because one look at him and the threads of hope were long and thick again. 

The heavily ringed hand shoving his hair back stilled and landed on the table with a haunting thud as his eyes snapped open. “Except for that I miss you, sweetheart,” Killian said softly. 

Her lips parted, admittance burning, dangerously hanging, but she shook her head. “Killian don’t-”

“Emma please-”

“Fine I’ll just get right into it,” she snapped. 

“Well there’s no need to rush, darling.”

“There is,” Emma huffed. “I have a date in an hour with some asshole and you need to get to work-”

“On the contrary, I work night shifts now.”

“Why?” she blurted and braced herself for an answer that would make her blood boil. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sniffed as his eyes slid closed. “You know why, love,” he muttered. 

Apparently something had changed: he’d taken the few hours he slept and cut them shorter. 

As the protest arose she mentally slapped herself it wasn’t her job to protect his heart anymore or his mind from the demons leeching the color from his face. Just like it wasn’t his job to be a gentleman, to be anything except a stranger, but was he eating, was he trying, was he living, was without her working?

She had to go or -she had to go. Save herself before she fell into yearning looks and doey eyes. 

“Right so I just came here to tell you that you need to pick up your stuff from my apartment,” Emma said in a rush. 

He was silent and she was panting. 

For a moment, they saved each other with yearning looks and doey eyes. 

Then he nodded gravely and the moment died and oxygen still didn’t rise in her lungs. 

“I suppose so,” Killian sighed, trying to smile. 

The corners of her mouth betrayed her, lifting and softening as he gazed at her like she might change her mind at the last second. 

A few more minutes and she’d be free to smack the steering wheel as many times as she had to, or release the sob creeping it’s knowing path up her throat because five months was too much, too long. 

Little longer and she’d be free to break. Breaking had never sounded like her smartest idea. 

“It’s been collecting dust there long enough.”

Not when she made sure to rinse his tea cup and set it back on the nightstand every night, not when he’d treated it like a lifeline. 

Her teeth sunk into her lower lip and soon disappeared into her mouth, spiking blood when she chewed a little (a lot) roughly. “I also think Mary Margaret figured out we’re not…” Seemed it was too much to hope for that he’d finish the sentence, that he’d take that weight off her tongue. Come on, why did he have to make her say it? The word was already on her I Used To Love Hearing Him Say It list. She could have heard him say it for hours and still smile because it had tiptoed onto future, but now? Now it was like she was pointing at the door again and he was dejectedly crossing the threshold. 

“Together,” Killian finally said. He frowned. “Well she needn’t be right on that theory.”

Emma groaned and buried her face in her palms. “Killian, stop, it’s not a theory, it’s the truth.” His eyes grew pained. A blow to her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs as she insisted and insisted. She shook her head, solidifying the anchor she’d thrown for both their sakes by gritting her teeth. “The point is I don’t want what happened between us to affect our friendships with them.”

“Do tell me you don’t desire to build a wall and divide the places we used to fancy,” he said stiffly. 

Emma scowled and said, “You don’t have to make this harder than it already is, Jones.”

His frown deepened. He straightened as she did and fight bubbled between her shoulder blades as she met his indignant gaze straight on. “Oh you believe I’m making this harder?” The finger he’d shoved into his chest now pushed into the surface of the table, and she raised a challenging eyebrow, waiting, ready to yell at him in the middle of freaking Starbucks, act the part of the horrible ex if it helped him come to terms. But the anger slipped from his eyes and was replaced by a glowing warmth that burned through her cold stance. 

“All I wanted was your honesty, Swan,” he admitted brokenly. 

She ignored it. He was still a wounded soldier, but she couldn’t treat his injuries anymore. “Look, I just don’t want our friends to get caught up in our bullshit.”

Killian clicked his tongue. “You are aware there is a solution to your vexation.”

Emma jumped to her feet so fast the legs of her chair screenched against the floor before banging into another chair. Back to his stupid and false, false as hell bravado. They were never going to find a middle ground, were they? Everything about choosing to see the best in each other, what was that, a lie? She was back to the side of the highway, wrapped in a blanket that served more as a taunting than a comfort. Alone, unwanted. The two people who were supposed to love her and want her in this world didn’t. 

And now this Starbucks was another group home. Another place where it went wrong. 

Tears pricked Emma’s eyes. She averted her gaze, searching for a phone that wasn’t there, blinking quickly. “I gotta go, don’t forget what I said about your stuff.”

Killian stood, hands reaching like they would grasp her waist before his stance was forced to mimick hers. Stiff and far. He straightened to his full height as he rolled his shoulders back and pushed his shaking fingers down the front pockets of his jeans, hiding them from her sight. Probably missing the smooth, gentle circles his thumbs used to kneed on the sides of her hips. Probably remembering how she chased all the restlessness from his fingers once she brought his hand to her face. 

“Alright.” He cleared his throat, nodded, and she licked her lips. No giggle he would capture in a searing kiss today. “What time shall work best for you, love?”

Emma sighed. “I don’t know, I don’t care.” Every word was a pineapple squirting its bitter onto her tongue and twisting her face. Her shrugging wasn’t any better, as heavy as the footsteps she was making toward the door. Her eyebrows arched, expectant, wishing he’d disappoint with an arch of his own. “You still have the key.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Yes.”

Once, that crooked smile was for happier times. 

God, it’d been forever since he’d pressed that crooked smile into her neck. 

_ That’s it.  _

“Okay so whenever you feel in the mood to go.”

“Emma wait.” Desperation hit her back and hastened her steps when she spun around, but he caught her forearm and spun her back to face him. Her chest smacked into his, knees weakened by his face so close, so handsome, and her breath caught in her throat, mouth clamping shut as the heat of him enveloped her and encouraging her feet closer, toes bumping into his boots as he steadied her with a firm, familiar hand on her waist. 

Demanding that he let her go, let her run, seemed just a little bit foolish when she’d stepped into the protective wrapping of his arm and molded her body against his like they were them again as needy fingers tugged on the lapels of his jacket, holding him tightly to her as her lips parted. 

“Killian come on,” she whispered half-heartedly, releasing a soft whine of  _ I can’t do this, I can’t do this _ . 

Couldn’t be this close to him and not have her skin tingling with the anticipation of his See You Soon kiss, not have her eyes fall closed and her head angle upward when her nose rubbed gently against his forehead, suddenly wet, softly panting lips an inch away from brushing his chin. 

The air had grown thick, quiet with her thumping heart clogging her ears and her good sense as they stood there. His splayed hand pressed on her lower back and invited her to fail again. Her eyes squeezed tightly and she shook her head vementhly, loosening her grip on his jacket because they couldn’t be this constant merry-go-round. “Killian I need to-”

“Shh, shh.” Her lips tweaked in a smirk, but the moment his knuckles glided past her jaw and her cheekbone and turned in time to bury his fingers past her ear and into her hair, a small breath slipped into the collum of his throat and a twitching smile broke across her mouth. His hand so nice, so knowing, having practiced the path so many times it was second nature when she sighed and her curls snaked

between his fingers and enclosed around the tips like they trusted him too. Her eyebrows furrowed as he inhaled a sharp breath that trembled their bodies and, still holding her cheek, he leaned forward and she froze as he pressed his lips to her forehead, lingering a beat too long before nuzzling her nose once. “Be careful, alright?”

Emma nodded immediately, squeezing his arm. “Always am.”

His face morphed with an ache that coursed through her bones. “I…”

She loved him too. 

“I’m giving us our best chance,” she finally said and with a weight slowing her movements,  _ finally  _ stepped out of his grasp. 

“I disagree.”

“Too bad,” she replied and turned around, heading straight for the exit, leaving the bearclaw and the coffee and him behind in another Starbucks. 

_ Too bad  _ bounced around in her heart before sighing in surrender. 

It was always too bad. 

*********

_ The cap weighed heavier than usual, seemingly as though it were a crown of twisted thorns pressing on his head and cutting through skin oh so slowly. No doubt, matting the sweat-soaked locks as he walked with steps that were nearly sure as he squinted through the crimson haze. Moisture had sprouted upon his forehead -out of nowhere, might he add- and the beads clung to his skin and rolled downward into the suddenly suffocating collar of his uniform.  _

_ He tugged at the collar roughly and chanced a glance up, in search of the hidden sun boiling his blood to an uncomfortable degree. He glared at the culprit whose rays had spread a fire over his chest and dampened the palm around his rifle.  _

_ Had Scarlet and Locksley noticed the heat as well? He twisted his neck to ask them just that, but they’d disappeared behind a curling fog. Bloody hell, what was this? His feet quickened, boots pounding on dirt and gravel, pulse increasing in his veins as he ran, perhaps away from the impending fog snaking closer, it’s crooked fingers reaching for his ankles. It’s swallowed them, he’s sure, and his burning eyes squeezed shut against the sting of salt travelling with the fierce wind that could mean Liam was nearby.  _

_ But where?  _

_ He spun, a full circle, surrounded by air as red as the bleeding sky above.  _

_ “Liam?” He called, tentatively, but the echoing of his voice returned. A scowl twisted his cracked lips as he tightened his grip on the rifle. His neck snapped around in all directions, waiting for him to emerge and give him the younger brother-old brother nonsense, inform him it was alright, ask Killian why his lower lip was trembling. “Brother, where are you? I’m done humoring you, where-” _

_ The ground exploded and he was thrown back, the scream getting caught his throat as his eyes snapped open and there he was, he’d finally found him, this wasn’t a game, he was skyrocketing through the air in a mixture of flaying limbs and a face paralyzed by shock. The blue in his widened eyes was prominent, ugring Killian to get back as Liam crashed down. _

_ He tried to shout, but his chest squeezed painfully and his wrist hung above his swimming gaze unnaturally. He couldnt’ breathe, he couldn’t breathe, coughing out grimy pebbles as he wheezed. Thunderous running footsteps shot by his head, and in the mist of the blackness and his ringing ears, there were hands grasping gently at his shoulders and then harshly on his arms.  _

_ “Jones! Come on, mate, get up! Get up! Hell if I let you die on my watch.” Scarlet? His determined voice roused his eyes open, lids drooping as he tried to pull himself upright. His chest contracted, ribs protesting, and he grit his teeth together to keep the tears from bursting. Will slapped his cheek. His vision abruptly stopped wobbling long enough for the panicked faces of Jeff and Whale to hit him, their mouths moved rapidly and their heads swiveling as they aimed and their rifles were making noise, they were, their bullet flashing through the air, and he couldn’t hear.  _

_ And then he did.  _

_ Shouting engulfed him, on all sides, as much as the strangled gasps of bullets hitting their mark, and his voice, Liam’s voice, “Remember, Killian, a man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets” and so he scrambled on all knees, ducking his head against the falling bodies, pulling out of Will’s grasp. He was yelling too, demading he stop, listen to reason, something about his blood.  _

_ The medic’s face was coming for him, and he dragged him to his feet only for his wobbling knees to crack, and he was trying, trying as fast as he could to wrap a tourniquet round his arm, his entire arm, oozing blood through the gauze, bright red sliding down his forearm and coating his palm and dripping from his shaking fingers.  _

_ “No, no, no, where’s Liam?” he shouted in his face, spit flying from both their mouths as they shouted things at each other that could not be heard in the chaos. Useless, useless, useless. A hand briefly grasped his ankle, fingers brushing the pant leg, and he spun around because was there, he’s there and he’s hurt. He’s there, and he dropped to his knees, grasping his pained expression between his hands, to hell with the aching everything as he pulled Liam’s head onto his lap.  _

_ “It will be alright, Liam, the medic is here, he will save you, I promise, brother.’ His wild eyes flew over every inch of his body covered in blood, his red clashing with his as his hands desperatedly tried to free him of his uniform, the truth spreading much too quickly over his chest as he heaved, their mother’s blue eyes rolled to the back of his head as Killian clutched his fingers with his bloody ones.  _

_ “Stay with me, brother, stay with me.” This was his dream, this was their dream, and it was fading, as fast as Liam’s breathing was underneath his body, their trembling widening his eyes as he held his knuckles to his lips and the tears gushed down his cheeks too soon. “No!” A sob rocked him forward. You don’t get to leave me, brother, you don’t get to - LI-” _

“AM!” Killian startled awake, panting heavily. Tremors gripped his entire body, causing his arms to move sluggishly around Liam’s chest -his eyes widened, head whipping. Where was Liam? Darkness trapped any effort to stand, pressing on his pounding heart, swallowing his ragged breaths. Oh was this death? It would not take Liam. No one could take Liam. He clenched his eyes shut and ran a hand through his hair, but the fingers slipped through something much too slick and he rubbed them together. His jaw slackened, losing its battle with anger as his lips twitched. The silent scream crawling up his throat blew his mouth open.  _ Blood.  _ Liam’s. And his. But mostly Liam’s. He was too late.  _ No.  _ No, no, no, that arrogant git just had to walk ahead first. 

He careened off the edge with sharp and deeply pointless inhales. Indeed it was blood and he shook his hand, shook his head, aggresively wiped it on his uniform. He didn’t want it, he dug his nails into the comforter and ripped it off the bed. He pulled himself upright enough only to smack pillows. Swaying on unsteady feet, he thrust his arm out blindly, eyes slowly clearing as a lamp shattered on the floor. Energy, vengeful energy coursed through his veins and helped dull the cracking knuckles as his fist crashed into the headboard and quivered his nightstand. 

“ _ Remember, Killian, a man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets.” _

The fight, so powerful a moment before, abruptly deflated. His head hung, having punched enough air. He collapsed on the mattress and it was in the peek of moonlight that he discovered it had not been blood, but sweat.

Another breath and he was not in Afghanistan. 

His eyes swung to her side of the bed, seeking to see if she was still there, still his, about to apologize profusely but...there were no golden tresses, no brilliant green eyes hidden by lids, no soft snores, no Swan.

Her space was empty. 

And truth was, as he lay, he was empty as well. 

“How I miss you, love,” Killian sighed, but as Emma had said earlier. 

He was no longer allowed to. 

  
  
  



	2. "I'm using my superpower on you and you're lying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii, I'm back with another sad chapter. Thank you for all the comments and kudos for the first chapter, I'm happy to see it's breaking your hearts -in a good way, there will be a happy ending, I promise. For now, maybe get a tissue?

**Chapter 2: "I'm using my superpower on you and you're lying."**

Blasted wood. 

Years, _years,_ he had served in the military with a hawk-like alert embedded into his soul and the firm knowledge that a shootout might be the last thing he ever heard, saw, and breathed and yet it is the door in front of him that brought him to a standstill. Differencing from the other doors lining either side of the hall, 815 in all its chipped glory above the peephole was a taunt. 

His jaw ticked and a brief tremble rippled through his fumbling fingers as they debated whether or not to insert the key. _You still have the key_ she had said. Of bloody course he still had the statement of their future buried in his pocket, hidden in his jacket, denting his palm, unfulfilling its purpose when he stuck it into the wrong door of the wrong apartment on the evenings when rum was a siren. Oddly enough, holding this key was worse than learning to keep his fear at bay when reloading a rifle.

Days after their meeting he was finally granting his Swan her wish. Who was he to deny her the desire to cut their ties, to deny her anything? His residence at her side had expired and as he crossed the threshold, it was as though he crossed into a ruptured dream.

He scanned the plain white walls, devoid of their photographs, and entering the living room he came upon the couch they’d chosen together. Emma’s tendency to leave any space she occupied in a hurricane had never failed to spark the speeches of tidiness Liam had drilled into his head, and wandering into the kitchen, there was the lingering scent of hot cocoa begging him inside to push the chair back in, to swipe the bits of chinese food off the table, to wash the forgotten dishes, and to flick the lights off before setting toward their bedroom. Theirs. Did he remain to be a part of something, a part of her? The multiple boxes containing his clothes and his paperbacks suggested no, pressed to the wall, as far away from where she slept, as if the traces of him were too much. 

Perhaps they were because as he approached her slowly, the soft snores filling her pillow serving as a welcome song than the lonesome refrigerator hum, there were traces of him she had not packed. Sitting tentatively on the edge of the bed, his palm swiped reverently over the navy comforter hiding her tucked legs to her knees, and the quilt -his and hers and theirs- that was tangled between her feet. One hand reached out to the space next to her, fingers crooked as if to clutch, seeking him? A sigh bubbled past his lips, as silent as the rise and fall of her chest. Relief spread over his nerves. Her cheek on his chest, her fingers clutching his chest hair, and her ear keeping track of an unsteady heart were missing from both their bodies, it would seem. 

He stood to close the window, seizing the wind sweeping in to shiver her shoulders. He was met by the sleeping city and the dark clouds looming above with the promise of rain matched how his day always began. As if on cue, all the bars in the area popped to the forefront, the lack of traffic and of people bustling home to families, reminded him the time to rush towards something, towards someone was a luxury he did not have. He drew the blinds roughly, the dryness of his throat aching to be burned, filled by courage. The room was suddenly too suffocating for his shaking fists insistent on freedom, and he marched across to gather the boxes in his arms. 

“Oh.” Killian froze. Her voice, despite ragged from sleep, was soft. He tried schooling the confusion on his features as he swallowed the lump in his throat and raised himself to turn around and soak in her small smile. “Hey.” 

He smiled in return. “My apologies, love, I didn’t intend to wake you.”

“It’s okay, I was just…” Emma shook her head and bluntly said, “How was your day?”

He blinked. “Alright,” he said slowly. He left an open door for her to decide she did not want the explicit details, but a pinch jumped between her eyebrows and a frown twisted her lips and he hurried to smooth both. “Nothing too shocking happened. Minus a small spill but only my hand was victim to it.” 

_Bloody hell._ He’d said too much. His left hand trembled as if in agreement and one glance at his fingers confirmed they were martyrs of an ambush. Heat, unyielding heat erupting under his skin was suddenly due to memory and not the pot of scalding coffee he’d lost control of earlier. He’d looked at his hand, expecting a bent wrist again, but the angle was right, weak. 

“You burned yourself?” His shrug was cut off by Emma springing off her elbow to scramble to the end of the bed on knees and hands. She snatched his forearm, stumbling him forward, and squinted whilst he held his breath and his hope. “Let me see.”

“It’s nothing, Swan.” He tried to take his hand back but her grip tightened, eyes flashing him a warning. 

“Shut up,” she snapped. Her pursed lips made the decision for him, made for his feet to plant themselves as her fingers trailed down his forearm to brush along the tender, pinkish hue that blemished the back of his hand. Damn coffee had splashed over his knuckles, sizzling, and he hissed as she reached a particular arch. “Babe,” she whispered, startled by the breaking of their bubble as her touch continued its feather-like path towards his wrist. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” Not if it removed the previous coldness from her eyes and replaced it with concern. 

Her eyes widened, sudden realization of their faces mere inches apart and lips ever closer causing her to let go of his hand and fall back on the heels of her feet. She cleared her throat and quickly tucked a strand behind her ear. “Pretty sure everything’s packed up,” she tossed a look at the boxes he’d abandoned. 

“Aye. So I’ve noticed.” His hand had grown cold. A second later and it was numb, fingers twitching to lace with hers. 

Her own hands disappeared behind her neck and reappeared dangling a silver chain between a thumb and forefinger. His jaw clenched in response to the ring swinging gently in air forged by their tension, and cracked when she nudged it forward. “You should still probably take this.” 

_“Take this.”_

_“You’re lucky ring, brother?”_

_“Yes, the one that always gets me home safe.”_

What a lie the ring had brought. Fitting perfectly in both their fingers, snug by dreams of honor for their contribution to the US. Yet only one brother had returned and it was the wrong one. He was safe, oh he was safe in demons and doubts. The mistake had been Liam pulling it over his head to rest on Killian’s collarbone. The mistake had been believing he had a home apart from Liam’s side. 

And now she was holding it out, away from her neck, grieving it in silence. 

And he was unmoving, refusing to look at the shaky lip betraying her formality, and he covered her knuckles with his folding palm, helping tuck the ring beneath her fingers. 

He shook his head. “I told you it belonged to a much better man than I,” his strength cracked on the last word, finally releasing a soft whimper.

She hesitated. “Still,” she said, despite how she smacked the ring against her chest, despite how her frown yelled she wanted it, wanted it near and hers, wanted the meaning of his giving it to her. 

“Have you no understanding of the meaning of gifts, Swan?” He was standing on the edge of exasperation, staring into a forest of spooked yearning. 

_“Calm down, Swan, I’m not proposing.”_

_“You’re giving it to me, why?”_

_“At the very least it’s a reminder that you’ve got a pierced eyed, smoldering man here who loves you.”_

At the very least it was a confirmation that he had a home. Besides Liam, it was her. 

He would not allow her to make the mistake of pulling it over her head too, and losing her. Gods, if he _lost her-_

“Fine.” He opened his eyes and hers portrayed she needed this as much as he. For a moment, oxygen alleviated dying lungs. The eternity to reach her answer and her brief nod passed, as did the time in her presence evaporate in the pending goodbye parting her lips and cutting his breaths.

He gave her a small bow of his head and locked eyes with hers. “Farewell then.”

“Wait!” He spun around, eyebrows arching, hands nearly reaching to grasp her panicked face. Her mouth opened and closed several times before divulging breathless, “I finally watched it. _Elizabeth: The Golden Age_ , I mean.”

The corners of his lips quirked upward. “And?” 

She gave him a sly smile. “You were right.” He wiggled his eyebrows and she rolled her eyes. “I loved it.”

Open book she was, no doubt. As done by Elizabeth, Emma had maintained peace and order in the chaos of his mind simply by coursing her fingers through his hair. The years of fighting alongside his brother halted its unforgiving loop of screams and laughs when she’d cupped his cheeks and dragged him to the present with her kiss. 

He sighed. “Told you so,” he smirked. 

Did she miss it as well, the smiles she’d shot his way that had kept the raging war at bay during their Netflix nights?

Did she, perhaps, miss him?

“Mmm yeah,” she hummed and scooted closer on her knees once more. His hands maintained their need to reach, grasp, and feel by shifting into fists mirroring the ones she held against her breasts, as though she could not trust herself either. He stared down and she stared up, eyes tracing furiously over features that were late to mask his fruitless nights with an encouraging smile. “Have you even looked in the mirror?” she asked, frown deep and skirting frustration.

“And confirm I’m devilishly handsome? Yes, I have,” he quipped, forcing his lips to grin. “Quite a number of times, actually.”

“You look tired,” Emma accused softly. 

“As do you,” he said, his best lopsided smile put to the test. The look of someone who’d been alone that he had managed to erase had slid in with full force at his departure. The circles underneath her eyes were as dark and heavy as his heart, and her lower lip held the faint indentations of biting generated by too much thinking. Her palm snaked up the side of his neck, coaxing pleasant goosebumps on the skin, her skin brushed, and her fingers surpassed his jaw to cup his cheek. 

The fear of losing her touch, losing her proximity motivated him to be a statue, to still and then time would cherish this too. 

“Your nightmares?” she inquired, soft and pleading. 

“Very well,” he lied. Why should he burden her? Why shouldn’t his palms settle on her hips?

“Liar,” she glared. “I’m using my superpower on you and you’re lying.”

Her thumbs stroked under his eyes, allowing his eyelashes to fall and rest and find peace. “Perhaps,” he breathed. 

A moment. A bonny moment where she was his, where she cared, where it was as though she’d never paused. “Tell me,” she whispered and when his palms at last smoothed around her hips, splaying over her lower back to link his fingers together and tug her closer, both their sighs expelled relief. 

“Worse than before,” he mumbled quickly. 

She nodded grimly. “Don’t forget to rest,” she said as her other hand trailed upward on his chest, fingers snaking around his neck before her arm looped firmly and urged him forward. He leaned his forehead without complaint, without ever a complaint. 

His eyes fell closed. “I won’t,” he sighed. 

Her cheek snuggled into his chest. “Promise?” 

“Aye,” he promised. His fingers ghosted her ribs, but paused at her sharp inhale. A simple tilt of his head and his lips brushed familiarity. “Now return to your slumber, beautiful.”

“Bye,” was her soft parting as their hands retreated to their distinct sides. 

He stepped back into the dark, unwilling to pilfer any more of her light simply because of his selfish trait. He collected the boxes, but as he straightened to head for the door, the glint of his teacup notched his breath. On instinct, he glanced at Emma for an answer that would sound musical to his ears, but already she lay with her back facing him, with a subtle wall he held no permission to climb, and _gods_ how he would climb, how he would escalate, bloody wound his hands if it meant she would turn to face the abiding pounding of their hearts. 

What did it indicate that she had not packed his teacup? 

Had she forgotten to stash yet another piece of him?

_No._ Swan was forgetful, but she _recalled._

He considered alleviating her of it. Creating space on the nightstand for a better man with a better teacup to take its place, but his selfish trait won and he left without a word. 

***********

He’d left his teacup. On purpose. 

Emma hadn’t forgotten. The fact that it lived on her nightstand, that it was the first thing her eyes landed on in the morning, and the last thing her eyes closed to in the night made it impossible. What had he told her once? Oh. Right. “ _You don’t need anyone ruining your happiness. You do that quite well on your own.”_ So what if his breath had been reeking of an all nighter of rum, drunks always said the truth whether you wanted to hear it or not. She proved it, she freaking lived his slurred words by washing the teacup, drying it, and ignoring the wide open box to place it back on the nightstand to be washed and dried again the next day. 

She’d left the teacup out for the taking, and damn it! He’d rushed out, he hadn’t helped her let go. Her mind was made but obviously her heart didn’t get the memo. If she pulled any harder on the ends of her hair, she’d yanked her head into the ground. If she bit her lip one more time, she’d run out of napkins to wipe the bleeding. 

Again, she was stalled by the question that had always plagued her on every bus-ride away, every sneak-off, every group home that wasn’t her choice, every pair of foster parents who wanted to be her choice: was if she was making a mistake, what if she missed this place, what if this time it was _it_ if she just stayed a little longer to find out?

A shiver wrecked through her spine just by remembering how close his fingers had been to her breasts, to brushing the curves with the heels of his palms and cupping them in his hands, as slow as their goodbye. Unsatisfied goosebumps still littered her skin, waiting to be smoothed by his tongue. Her thighs rubbed together, clenching and unclenching, searching for relief of the throb he’s inspired in her nub and the fire in her belly that no amount of rolling and twisting and punching her pillow would douse out. 

_Damn. It._

Her gaze flicked to the far wall when she finally smacked her palms against the mattress, huffed when her elbows gave out, and face-planted into her flattened pillow. Carefully depositing all the things associated with Killian had put her tears to the ultimate test, turning it into a game of Let’s See What Makes You Cry First. Light sniffles and shakes of her head had spoiled her evenings for the past couple days. Seeing the boxes no longer looming should have been cause for celebration but-

Her phone suddenly shrieked with an angry ringtone, startling her to her feet, and she scooped it to her ear with an absent tap on the green button, crossing her fingers for a new skip that called for her to track him/she across multiple countries. 

“What do you got for me-”

“Hello, is this Emma Swan?”

Oh no. 

“Emma Swaaan? Emma, darling, do you hear me?” Killian - _drunk off his ass Killian-_ demanded with a confused lilt. 

Her nose wrinkled, ripped between curling her fists or talking him into sobriety -now there was a constructive path to failure. Talking to him in his drunk state had never worked. Like Mary Margaret, he transformed into a sentimental teddy bear. He was all about feeling where she was all about leaving. “Killian, you sound-”

“Drunk? Oh I very much am!” He was grinning. She closed her eyes and she could _hear_ the grin. “So much so I can’t even see my own hand, they all blur together, don’t they?”

“I thought we agreed we-I mean you were to switch to water,” Emma sighed. 

**“** I thought you agreed to love me, love,” he shot back gently, out of nowhere deciding to tug on one of her weak heart strings. His voice quivered when he asked, “What is that happened, what did we-”

She grit her teeth. No. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t save him through a phone call. “You’re drunk and you’re not thinking straight, pass me to the bartender,” she said firmly. But she couldn’t go to whatever bar he was at either. 

“Bloody hell no, I don’t wish to share you,” he growled and it quickly slipped into a wheezing cough as his hand smacked against the counter -or something-creating crackling in her ear. A shot glass smacking down only intensified her frown. Stubborn. He was so stubborn. “You’re still mine, are you not?”

“Just fucking do what I say!”

More shuffling. His leather jacket squishing past strangers disgruntled protests. His ‘oof’ when he tripped -probably tripped- over his feet and proud ‘Oi!’ when he managed to catch himself on something. God, why couldn’t he listen to her? “I’m afraid rum is a man’s best friend, and I will not, CANNOT-”

“Seriously,” Emma said quietly, so small in his state of high. “ _Please._ ”

He released an exasperated sigh. “Very well, very well, how can I ignore the pleas of my would-be wife?” 

  
The phone almost slipped from her grasp. _Wife?_ She was silent for a moment as he cursed for the bartender’s attention. The meaning of wife, the implications of a family and a future, wrapped around the

pieces of her heart that had been neglected. Of course moving in together would have demanded they look at the big picture eventually, but they’d danced around it. What if she said it loud and it became real, what if she got her wish and it disappointed her? 

Except Killian Jones had never intended to let her down. 

“Here, here, MA-Teee , take it, yes, you, my love wants to speak with you, she claims I’m not in my right mind, how blasted wrong she is.”

Emma rolled her eyes and kneaded her thumbs into her temples as she balanced the phone between her shoulder and cheek. 

“Hello? Is this Killian Jones’ girlfriend?”

“No. I’m Emma,” she replied curtly. 

“Well, Emma, he’s in bad shape. I would encourage him not to step foot outside at the moment, don’t want to risk one of my customers getting hit by a truck, you understand, yeah?” The man joked, but it fell flat. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Look, I can’t go there, but I’ll call a friend of his. His name’s David. He’ll get him home.”

“Wonderful,” he quipped. “ Have a good evening, milady.”

“Yep, she used to be my lady," Killian cut in grudgingly, the shame in his voice heavy and splashing like a boulder on her stomach.

Emma bit her lip. “Hey, do me a favor?”

“Alright, name it,” the man quickly assured. 

“Hang up, don’t let him call me again.” She closed her eyes and a single, pining tear slipped down her cheek. “It’s for his own good.”

He sighed, like he understood sacrifice. “I admire you, Ms-”

“Just call me Emma.”

“Well Emma, I’m Robin Locksley, at your service. I admire you taking such good care of him.” 

She smiled shakily. “Be sure to give him a glass of water to calm him down.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Oh! And make sure he doesn’t forget his jacket, he loves that jacket,” Emma mumbled, mostly to herself. 

“No worries.”

“Thanks, Robin.”

“Anytime.”

“Bloody hell, let me-”

“Bye.” She hung up. 

And let Killian Jones down. 

She was great at that, she noticed. Doing what the world had done to her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be flashbacks into what led to the breakup -just as soon as I write it, wish me luck!


End file.
